


When It's Cold, I'd Like To Die

by Braangster



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Emetophobic Eddie, Gen, Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 16:37:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12868629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Braangster/pseuds/Braangster
Summary: No, it’s the face of the leper that engrains itself into Eddie’s brain, clouding the edges of his vision when he zones out, forcing itself into his dreams, his nightmares. Just picturing it causes Eddie to blanch and he has to dig his nails into his palms, calming himself down.





	When It's Cold, I'd Like To Die

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys!! i hope you like this. it's something i've kinda been wanting to write cuz i have really bad emetophobia and seeing eddie get puked on in the movie was the worst part for me lmao. so it's mostly projection but im still happy with it. it's the longest thing i've written in a while!  
> title is from when it’s cold id like to die by moby

Eddie has never been scared of clowns. 

There have been times where he and Stan would have to pull Richie to the side at a fair or parade or something to distract him from seeing the clowns, but he’s just never really cared for them. No, the fear of It more stemmed from the fear of death. It’s hard  _ not  _ to be scared when something is crouching over you, drool and slobber getting everywhere, taunting you with inevitable death, clown or not. 

But if It was just a clown, always a clown, It never would have been able to get into Eddie’s head as much as it did. He’d still have nightmares, sure, but getting nearly killed by a batshit clown demon thing could do that to you.

No, it’s the face of the leper that engrains itself into Eddie’s brain, clouding the edges of his vision when he zones out, forcing itself into his dreams, his nightmares. Just picturing it causes Eddie to blanch and he has to dig his nails into his palms, calming himself down. 

When Bill calls him about It taking Beverly, part of him hates himself for hoping,  _ praying  _ the clown will stay a clown the entire time ( _ That wouldn’t be fair to Richie, _ he tells himself, trying to will the thought out of his mind.). He knows that won’t happen, not when this piece of shit somehow knows all of their fears, so he spends his time in the sewers mentally preparing himself to face that damn leper again.

What he doesn’t expect is for the leper to throw up.

All over him.

Eddie’s fight or flight instinct usually manifests as flight. He doesn’t think of himself as weak, not really, and the other Losers would never think to describe him that way, but usually, when faced with a bad situation, his instincts tell him to run, to get out of there, to avoid getting hurt or sick to the best of your abilities.

Before he even registers what happened, he feels a flash of white, hot anger, and he feels his reactionary instincts kick in. He shrieks and musters up all the strength his tiny body can hold, giving It, the leper,  _ Pennywise _ , a swift kick in the chest that sends it reeling. 

His mind is running a mile a minute, but he doesn’t have the opportunity to process it because,  _ fuck _ , he’s just trying to kill this goddamn clown (spider? Demon? Thing.  _ Whatever _ .). He’s just going with what feels right, kicking and hitting as hard as he can manage when It comes his way, holding up his end of the fight effectively.

None of them really get a chance to think until it’s over, and they’re all slowly ambling out of the sewers, trying to collect their thoughts. Mike finds a sewer grate that leads to somewhere near the barrens, and the kids help each other through, one by one. It isn’t until the sunlight hits him, until he sees the state of his cast, his clothes,  _ his entire body _ , that it hits him.

“Oh, God,” Eddie mutters, legs collapsing pathetically from underneath him. “Oh, my God. No, fuck,  _ fuck _ , no.” He’s staring down at his hands, processing what he’s seeing. 

“Eddie? Are you okay?” Ben asks when they all notice Eddie’s current state. He crouches down next to him, but Eddie doesn’t take his eyes off of his hands. He barely even hears what Ben said.

Grey water, he can handle. Blood? It’s gross, and infectious, and yes, he can’t get the thought of AIDS out of his brain, but blood is manageable. Even beating the shit out of a demon clown is apparently doable for him.

But vomit.

Vomit, he can’t do.

Of all the things Eddie Kaspbrak can be absolutely, wholeheartedly terrified of, vomit is at the very top of his list.

And he’s staring down at himself, covered in dark green puke.

“I….I….Jesus Christ,” he chokes out, forcing back a sob. He knows he’s being irrational right now. They just took It on and won, and here he is, about to lose it in front of his friends just because he got thrown up on. It’s selfish, he thinks, that Bill is standing there, somehow staying strong, after being confronted with Georgie, while he’s on the ground, unable to think straight, to breathe, just because he got a little dirty.

Placebos be damned, he wishes he hadn’t pitched his fanny pack because his chest feels so fucking tight, and, as if he were reading Eddie’s mind, Richie pulls his spare inhaler out of Bill’s backpack and offers it to him. At this point, Eddie is finally able to tear his eyes from himself, from the filth, and snatches the inhaler. It takes him a second to get it into his mouth because his hands are shaking so bad, and he has to screw his eyes shut to ignore that the vomit-soaked hand holding the inhaler is so close to his face. 

His heartbeat calms down a bit after this, and he can think. He  _ knows  _ he’s being irrational. Of all the things to be scared of, throwing up should not be this high on his list. It shouldn’t be the highest, especially when there is so much disease and sickness out there that can kill him.

( _ Among other things _ , he thinks bitterly.)

He pushes himself to his feet, takes a deep breath, and turns to grab Stan’s arm for stability. “It’s okay,” he says shakily. “I’m fine. It’s fine. Let’s go.” 

Stan gives him a reassuring look, and Eddie immediately feels humiliated because fuck, he just had a breakdown over some stupid clown gak while Stan is comforting him with bloody holes in his damn face. If he had his fanny pack, he’d have disinfectant, and he could clean up the teeth marks in Stan’s face, preventing them from getting infected….Eddie reflexively places a hand on his hip where his fanny pack would be,  _ should  _ be, and hates himself a little bit more.

Once everyone is reassured that yes, Eddie can make it the rest of the way home without collapsing again, they begin to walk back again. Eddie is still clutching Stan’s arm, but it’s more for comfort now than stability. Stan’s other arm is on the small of Bill’s back, comforting him as well. Eddie can almost cry at how comforting of a presence Stan is right now, despite everything.

(Stan is biting back tears. His lip is quivering, and his nose is twitching, and Eddie can see how glossy his eyes are, but  _ he’s  _ comforting  _ them _ .)

When they walk past any puddles or the river, Eddie turns his head, refusing to catch another glimpse of his vomit-soaked body. He can’t handle that, not right now.

When they reach the road, and it’s time for them to all go their separate ways, Eddie reluctantly lets go of Stan. They all share hugs, and Eddie feels increasingly bad with each one.  _ I’m going to get all of you sick, _ he thinks.  _ You’re all going to come down with the stomach flu, or a fever, or some other incurable disease…. _ “Hey, Eds, I’ll walk home with you,” Richie says with a small smile, breaking his train of thought, and it doesn’t have any of the usual flair Richie’s comments usually hold. Eddie shrugs and nods slightly, only now realizing how stiff his clothes have gotten now that the vomit has dried up a bit. He swallows, hard, trying to push that out of his mind and focus on the fact that Richie is all but shoving him in the direction of his house.

The walk is uncharacteristically quiet for the two of them. Usually, any moment spent between the both of them alone is filled with quick witted banter, going back and forth until one of them cracks, laughing until neither of them can catch their breath.

Eddie doesn’t feel like talking, though (he feels that the vomit will get in his mouth if he opens it, even though it’s mostly dried by now, and he’s  _ already talked _ between now and then), and he’s thankful that Richie seems to pick up on that. Richie makes a few comments on the way, but nothing that requires an answer. Eddie mostly just makes sounds of acknowledgement so Richie knows that he’s listening.

It’s not until they reach his street that he opens his mouth again. “Oh, fuck,” he hisses. “If my mom sees me like this, she’s going to  _ kill  _ me.”

Richie grins. “Y’know how I said I’d show you how I get into your window? Well, it’s now or never, Eds.” Eddie knows this is a bad idea because Richie has climbed into his window a grand total of two times, and he spent a solid minute flopped down on the Eddie’s floor both times, trying to catch his breath after stumbling in and landing hard. However, he doesn’t have time to protest the idea (or the nickname) before Richie is dragging him by his wrist to the side of his house. “Come along, dear Edward! It’s not everyday you get to learn from the best!” Though he’d never admit it, Eddie finds himself comforted by the sheer normalcy of one of Richie’s Voices right now.

Richie hops up on the small wooden crate below Eddie’s window and looks down at him. “I was gonna climb in first, but I think you’re too tiny to reach, so I better stay out and help you.” His grin spreads. “Make sure you don’t snap your other arm.”

Eddie rolls his eyes but steps up onto the crate. His window isn’t really that high, but they’re small kids, and the crate puts them at about level with the window. He lets Richie open the window because he really doesn’t want to get it dirty. “Okay, so you just gotta throw yourself in, Eds. Just grab your window sill and throw yourself.”

Eddie rolls his eyes (he’s done this before, and it was fine) and grabs onto the sill, trying to ignore the fact that crusty dried vomit is flaking off onto it. He swings his legs over and lands on his feet. Richie, however, takes his own advice to heart and pushes himself into the room with too much force, landing with a soft  _ whump  _ on the ground before pushing himself up onto his elbows and beaming at Eddie. “Y’know, the green doesn’t look half bad. In fact, I think you should get puked on more often. It’s a cute look.”

“Beep, beep,” Eddie mutters. Richie looks surprised for a second because he doesn’t think what he said was really even that bad, but Eddie just waves him off. “I’m….I’m going to take a shower. Then you can, too.”

He stops just as he’s about to leave his room before he snaps his head back to Richie. “ _ Don’t _ sit on my bed before you get a shower, too, Rich. I swear to God, if you get my sheets dirty, I’ll fucking kill you.” Richie stops in his tracks with a sheepish smile and plops down on the floor.

He’s in the shower for forty five minutes.

The first 15 minutes consist of frantic scrubbing, everywhere, trying to get the vomit, the filth, off of him. He knows his cast isn’t supposed to get wet, but he doesn’t care. It’s caked in puke and grey water and who knows what else, so he spends another ten minutes rubbing at it with the shower loofah. It looks better, at least. You can see white now. 

When he puts a hand to his head, he almost yells. His hair, even after being under the water for almost twenty five minutes now, is still caked to his head. He scratches at it with fervor, watching at the grime runs down the drain. He uses more shampoo than he ever has before, washing it out and putting more on his head when the water still runs green.

He stays under the stream of water, staring down with wide, attentive eyes, refusing to turn off the shower until the water is completely clear.

Richie is in and out of the shower within ten minutes, if even that. 

_ He probably didn’t even clean behind his ears, _ Eddie thinks, almost leaning over to check before catching himself. They’re both sitting on Eddie’s bed, Eddie in sweats and a big, comforting sweatshirt and Richie in the sweats and old t-shirt he keeps here for nights he decides to drop by.

“As lovely as this has been,” Richie starts, “I think I should probably dip.” He looks at Eddie intensely for a second, and Eddie feels hot and bashful under his gaze. “Just call me up if ya need anything, Kaspbrak.” The gaze softens, and Richie grins, his freckles popping out against his pale skin. “I’m just a hop, skip, and a jump away, my boy!” And with the Voice, the intensity of the moment is gone.

Eddie scrambles to grab his wrist before he can get up and leave. “Wait! Why don’t-- why don’t you stay here tonight? If you pull any stupid shit, I  _ will  _ kill you, but I don’t….I don’t want to….” he makes a vague gesture, his eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t wanna be alone, after today. After this whole summer. I don’t know. It doesn’t feel real, and I’m afraid that if you leave, everything is just going to….crumble beneath me. Y’know?”

Richie opens his mouth, as if to say something, but shuts it again just as quick. Then he hops back onto the bed with a smile, without a word.

And pulls Eddie up against his side.

Eddie feels his face flush, and he wants to feel the comfort, the butterflies, the elation that’s usually present when Richie pulls shit like this, but instead, he wiggles himself out of Richie’s grip. “Richie, I’m still. I’m still dirty. Germy. Don’t touch me.”

Richie laughs and ruffles Eddie’s hair. “Doesn’t bother me. You smell simply divine, Eds. Like a fucking flower.”

Eddie forces a smile and tries to let himself relax, but he swears he can still feel the vomit on him, still smell it.

He takes another shower that night, and a bath, staying in until his fingers got so pruny that he couldn’t stand looking at them. But he finally feels clean, at least. 

He knows that this is going to take him a while to get over. It was traumatizing,  _ terrifying _ , and even now that he  _ knows  _ he’s clean, he still feels the need to scrub himself down again, rubbing the skin raw until he knows nothing it there. But for tonight, it can be enough. It has to be enough. He’s exhausted.

And when he finally gets into bed, for real this time, with the comforting presence of Richie snoring quietly next to him, he thinks,  _ maybe I can do this. Maybe I can get some sleep tonight. _

And he does.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! follow me on tumblr @richardgoranski


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